


Waves

by teacuptribbles



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal Lecter-centric, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuptribbles/pseuds/teacuptribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Will and Hannibal settle into their life in Buenos Aires, Hannibal reflects on their relationship and future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind words and encouragement on my last pieces. This is a one-off but somewhat of a prelude to a longer story I hope to have out soon.

Hannibal did not care for the ocean. Will, on the other hand, could not get enough water. He worked long hours at the marina fixing motors and patching exteriors, yet on his days off he took to the beach. He would walk until his feet no longer reached the bottom, and then he would let the waves control his movement. From the sand Hannibal watched his body bob up and down with the Atlantic’s motions.

Hannibal wished for a confined space, a visible bottom. The boundless ocean made him feel impossibly small. Like many anxious people, Will found comfort in nature for this reason. The ocean cared not what people did. For Hannibal, that was just as threatening as it was humbling. 

Their dog was also skeptical of the water. Occasionally she would jump along the shoreline to chase smaller waves, but when they grew too large she stayed between Hannibal’s legs.

He had only killed once since they arrived in Buenos Aires. He and Will were walking home from a bar, his arm draped around Will’s shoulders. An oncoming pedestrian glared at them, spit in their direction, and hissed: _“Faggots.”_

If he had said anything else, Hannibal might have let it go. Instead, he encouraged Will to go home, turned around, and followed the stranger until the streetlamps ended.

The man was drunk, uncoordinated. Disappointingly easy to murder. Hannibal took his kidney and left him behind a dumpster. 

The news reported on it, briefly. There were no public outcries, no mournings. It seemed the man’s biggest accomplishment was becoming a delicious rognon stew. 

One of his favorite activities was a hot bath in their wide alcove tub. With a small glass of Cognac, he played Mozart and thought about the future. There had been no better time in his life than now. Mischa and Abigail came to him in his sleep, but his memory palace was visited less often. He looked forward to adding more rooms, rather than staying in old ones.

Sometimes Will joined him in the bath. He laid back, his head resting on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal watched him close his eyes and breathe in deeply. He smiled. “Do you ever get tired of floating?”

“Never. I would live in water if I could.”

In these moments, Hannibal forgot that he was unsure of love for so long.

He had known of its existence. Afterall, it had propelled art for centuries. And he did love, in a way. He loved the compositions of Verdi, the dance of tannins on his tongue, the glide of a blade through dough.

And he had met people, colleagues usually, who interested him enough to be worthy of love. Bright students with fresh ideas. Alana Bloom came to mind. He had wondered, briefly, if he could love her. But that would require trust: trust that she would keep his secret, perhaps even engage it. He knew that was impossible.

He had let go of the idea of falling in love. When he read Shakespeare’s sonnets, he could only imagine being compelled to write about the shade of someone’s lips. 

Years of solitude passed. It did not bother him, most of the time. Yet some days the silence at meals was unbearable. The burden of his lifestyle was never so clear as when he cooked for two and ate for one. 

Then Will came along. 

Will, with charcoal curls and nervousness in his eyes. His scent was...complicated. Ugly at first, with a pungent, clove-heavy aftershave and the sour smell of cortisol. It completely overwhelmed the coffee under Hannibal’s nose. But as they sat together a while, disgust gave way to intrigue. 

_Not fond of eye contact, are you?_

Hannibal did not tolerate rudeness. Will was not rude; he was uneasy, a bit cold. Cold because he had to be. When their eyes met, Will’s pupils contracted to match Hannibal’s more composed state. He had runaway empathy. This ability, and hardship, was the entire reason for their meeting. Seeing it in action was remarkable.

As their sessions came and went, a question took root in Hannibal’s brain: _could he understand me?_

Will came to understand him, intimately. Enough to surprise him, enough to manipulate him. It was terrifying and exhilarating. They hurt each other deeply. He had fallen in love with Will and Will had fallen in love with him, but he could not admit it to himself, and that made Hannibal furious. He spent nights and innumerable pages sketching Will: the small gap in the middle of his mustache, the lines of his back, the curves of his calves. The words of Shakespeare made sense.

Then Will decided he could share in the secret.

_I don't know if I can save myself. And maybe that's just fine._

When they married, the teacup came together at the seams. The next half of their lives would be free. Hannibal did not pray exactly, but he thanked God. Only Will and God accepted him as he was. 

Sometimes, in the quiet of night, he felt a longing. He wondered if a piece of the teacup was lost. He had sacrificed Abigail to his wrath, something he now regretted. When he stood in front of the mirror, he envisioned Abigail brushing her hair. When he prepared their evening meal, he saw himself instructing her on the steps. Before meeting Will, his work was going to be his legacy. Now that seemed unsatisfactory.

They were not young. Hannibal would be turning fifty-four in a few months. He decided that soon he would discuss children with Will. He could not wait much longer.

As the sun set behind their apartment, Will slid under the covers. His mornings were early. A few hours later, after yoga and a glass of red wine, Hannibal joined him. When the ocean was particularly tempestuous, he could hear the soft thundering of waves. He watched Will’s body rise and fall in synch with the sound. The undulating outline of his husband’s body sent him to sleep, where his sister played with her favorite doll and Abigail was his sous chef. Sometimes he was a child, usually he was his current age. He jumped from a Vilnius orphanage to the Louvre to his home in Baltimore and back again. 

His dreams had not changed much throughout the years. But now, when he dreamed about Will, he woke up to his scent on the pillows, in their bed, in their home. Every morning he breathed it in and thought: _never leave me._


End file.
